She took Keaton’s arm and they set off into Hyde Park. They followed a paved path, then veered away and across grass. Keaton’s senses were dulled by the champagne, and he found himself reliant on his wife for guidance. He had his arm about her shoulders while she held him around the waist, trying to take some shelter under his outstretched coat. The ground beneathhis feet was waterlogged, and they were soon splashing through puddles from which the grass poked.
When the first rumble of thunder reached their ears, they stopped.
“We perhaps should not be abroad if this is to become a thunderstorm,” Keaton bellowed out over the furor.
“I have always been rather afraid of thunderstorms,” Georgia replied.
Keaton could hear the unease in her voice.
“Really? Whatever for?”
“When I was a girl, I became lost in the woods during a thunderstorm. It was terrifying. Elias saved me. I was six, and he was just a few years older, but he braved the storm to come and find me. There! I think I see some refuge!”
“Not a tree, I hope!” He laughed as she led him a trot.
She clung to him fiercely as the peals of thunder grew louder, interspersed with bright flashes of lightning. Keaton clung back. Partly, it was to reassure her as the sky was split. Partly, it was to reassure himself that his guide was not about to leave him behind. Though he had no fear of thunderstorms, he did not relish the idea of being stranded in the middle of one.
Presently, he heard the sound of a wooden door with creaking hinges being heaved open. The rain stopped, drumming furiously on a wooden roof overhead. The air inside was old and musty, with a strong undercurrent of animals. Horses, in fact. Keaton’s feet clunked against a stone floor, then rustled on old straw.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“I think it must have been a stable. There are stalls and lots of old straw. But no horses. Plenty of cobwebs and dust, though.”
They found some old sacks that had once contained oats and stuffed them with straw to form makeshift seats. Keaton could do a competent job once directed to the deepest clumps of straw. As he sank into his seat, Georgia did the same, laughing as her stuffing gave way and she was toppled into Keaton.
For a long moment, they sprawled just inside the stable doors, laughing almost uncontrollably. Both had more serious concerns and uses for their time, but the champagne served to reduce those worries. It was temporary. Through the merry haze that the champagne had drowned him in, Keaton was aware that this could not last.
For now, though, I am content with what I have right here. I will not think of what her motives are or who she might be conspiring with. I will not dwell on whether I am being manipulated or whether I will ever know what happened to me. I will savor the company of a beautiful woman.
Georgia’s lips nuzzled at his neck and let out a long sigh of pleasure. Her dress felt paper-thin due to its soaking. He stroked his fingers up and down her spine. She murmured her appreciation at his touch.
Keaton moved her wet hair back from her face, caressing her cheek and then tracing the outline of her lips with his fingers. He marvelled at just how accurate his depiction of her had been.
“You really are most extraordinarily beautiful,” he whispered.
“No, I am not,” she whispered back, her lips dancing a hair's breadth from his, “you are blind. You cannot tell.”
“I am blind and that is all I can tell.”
Their lips met, and the sensation cut through the cold and the wet. It cast aside the befuddlement of champagne, bringing clarity. Keaton felt as though he were melting into her, becoming one with her. His arms held her tightly to him, savoring the feel of her perfect body. His hands roamed to her buttocks, feeling their round tightness. He cupped her breasts and played across her stomach.
She writhed and squirmed at his touch, reacting to even the slightest movement. Each twist of her lithe body emphasized a new aspect of it, bringing a new part to Keaton’s attention. He explored her legs, feeling firm thighs beneath her sodden skirts, tracing the line of shapely calves.
“We will catch our deaths if we remain in these wet clothes,” he murmured, “is there anywhere in here where a fire could be laid?”
Georgia looked around.
“There is a door. I saw a chimney on that end of the building. There must have been rooms down there adjoining the stables. If there is a chimney, there must certainly be a fireplace.”
They rose, and Georgia led him to the door and through it. Beyond was a narrow corridor, whose walls brushed Keaton’s shoulders. Then, a room whose acoustics told him it was small. The differing sound of the rain told him the size of the windows, which were made of frosted glass. After a moment’s hunting in drawers and cupboards, Georgia discovered what she called an ancient tin. Within was flint and tinder.
Soon, Keaton could feel the heat of fire on his face and against his hands.
“As you said, we should dry our clothes. It would be better done if…” Georgia descended into laughter, unable to finish.
“You need not be concerned for your modesty,” he reminded her, “I will not see you.”
“But I will see you!” she protested.
